


set alight my veins

by whiskeyinthejar



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, very background ziam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-24
Updated: 2013-07-24
Packaged: 2017-12-21 06:25:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/896908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyinthejar/pseuds/whiskeyinthejar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Liam really thinks it's funny to send him on a surprise date with a tattooed, leather wearing punk then Harry's going to have words with him later. When he's managed to stop staring at the guy across from him.</p><p>-</p><p>Harry's quiet and shy and does all his homework. Louis drives motorbikes and never turns up to school. Their respective friends think they'd be a cute couple.</p>
            </blockquote>





	set alight my veins

**Author's Note:**

> Written because there's always room for another high school au.
> 
> But really, I hope you all like it.
> 
> Kudos/comments, are, of course, so wildly appreciated I would shed tears.
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All characters and events should be in no way associated with any person, and I do not profit from or intend to offend.

_It’d be good for you, to get out. See someone. You know, live a little._

Which Harry had thought had been kinda rich, considering Liam had only been to one more party than Harry (who, as of yet, has not attended one) and two more dates (which is also at a total of zero, for Harry). So it’s not as though he’s the sudden celestial being of knowledge on ‘living a little’.

Most importantly, Liam’s ill advised lecture has been floating it’s way around Harry's head for the past fifteen minutes and he has completely no idea of anything that just passed in that stretch of time. It’s all Liam’s fault. He’s never explaining the quadratic formula to him again.

“And as you can see, the use of sibilance here emphasizes his later evolution into a character more sinister. Why do you think the author has done this?” The teacher looks at the class expectantly, peering over his glasses at them. No one even bothers to feign interest anymore, because Hobbs is the kind of teacher who would lecture to an empty classroom and probably not register any difference to a full one.  
Harry thinks idly that he most definitely hates English.

“ _Foreshadowing._ ” Mr Hobbs says, smiling widely, before it drops completely off his face and he goes back to sending the class into their usual semi-comatose state. If Harry was willing to waste paper and ink, he’d doodle or something, but you know, he’s not. It leaves his brain awfully lively though, thoughts buzzing around and rebounding off the inside of his skull and forcing him to rethink them.

 _I don’t need a date,_ he thinks to himself, tapping his fingers together languidly. He knows he’s probably going to have to catch this lesson up later, and that’s going to royally screw up his timetable for his night (it’s actually a very good thing that he’s organized, because organized men are hot), but he really can’t bring himself to listen. It’s just; there are categories that people fall in to. There’s the majority, the ones who date in school and go through relationships like they’re old news, and then there are the people who wait until they’re older and have a few, serious relationships. Harry is the second. He’s always been the second (as is evident from his glittering track record of romantic success). So, Harry guesses, he’s kind of reconciled himself with his fate of not really _having_ anyone, not during school, anyway.  (His mum would probably have some kind of fit if he did bring someone home even if there was such a person, because one of his mother’s most favourite mantras is that if he wants to get anywhere in life, he needs to work hard, and girls are an unwelcome distraction from that, will tear him from his textbooks, and no doubt send him spiralling down into a web of deceit, failure, sex, drugs and rock n roll. Harry also decided not to mention the fact if he were to bring anyone home, it wouldn’t be a girl.)

Still, he thinks he’d like to know just exactly who it is that Liam’s set him up with. For scientific reasons, obviously. But it would help him to really cement his decision to not go if he knew exactly who he was supposed to be seeing.

*

“What do you mean it’s a _blind date?_ ” Harry asks, incredulous, staring at Liam in enough surprise for his eyebrows to begin to climb their way up across his forehead. They’ve relocated to their usual corner of the dining hall for lunch -where no one usually bothers them much, because there’s only so many times that shouting and jeering at stoic statues can really be entertaining- and Harry’s had his math textbook lying open and unread on his lap for most of the time and he tries to extract information from a tight lipped Liam. It’s like, he reflects sadly, trying to squeeze blood from a stone.

“A blind date. Where the participants of the date do not know each other prior to attending the date, and-”

Damn Liam and his fondness for definitions.

“Yeah, I do actually know what one is, Liam. The point is, why can’t you just tell me?”

Liam shifts uncomfortably at Harry’s questions, looking down to his own textbook and obviously debating the likeliness of Harry dropping the subject if he just begins working. He seems to decide that that would be highly unlikely, though, because he sighs deeply and looks at Harry with the kind of wide, beseeching eyes that are supposed to melt his heart. Harry likes to think that he’s far above the doe eyed effect, no matter how liquid brown Liam’s irises are.

“We-ell. You see, the thing is” Liam pauses to clear his throat slightly, and Harry taps his fingers rhythmically on the pages of his book, “I don’t entirely know who the other guy is.”

For a few beats, Harry blinks at Liam like he’s never seen his before in his life. Then, his words finally sink and he sucks in a breath, ready to berate Liam with a spur of the moment speech.

“Don’t worry, don’t worry, he’s not gunna be like, a paedo or anything. Well, hopefully. Probably not. But he shouldn’t be.” Liam stresses quickly, watching Harry’s expression like he’s a ticking bomb that could scar him permanently with shrapnel. Which Harry isn’t, because he’s a human being.

“What do you mean, you don’t know who he is? How did you even set us up if you don’t know him? Bloody hell, Liam, did you get some freak off the _internet?_ ”

Again, Liam squirms a little, wriggling around in his chair, and Harry takes the time to wonder how he’s not hot under a shirt and a knitted vest, but there you are. He’s obviously against the rules of summer.

“No, no. I was, uh, asked if you would go on the date by someone, with their friend. Or at least, that’s what he said. I mean, it could be some kind of prank, but I don’t think so. He isn’t the type who usually takes the piss, so-”

“ _Liam._ ” Harry interrupts calmly, leaning across the table and letting his textbook fall to the floor for dramatic effect. “ _Who was the guy?_ ”

Liam, the coward that he is, takes an honest to God gulp and pushes his chair back.

“Zayn Malik.” He says (almost too quietly for Harry to hear, but Harry’s actually very good at hearing things because he has very good hearing. Unlike his vision, which is terrible. That’s kind of the reason that he has glasses) and drags his lower lip into his mouth with his teeth.

“The art kid?” Harry asks in puzzlement, although Zayn’s actually older than him but has been kept behind because he never turns up to school. Liam nods sharply, eyelashes quivering as he blinks. “Paint on his arms, covering his tattoos, the one with the-” Harry waves his arms about over his head, flicking his fingers out from his palms, “hair?”

Liam continues to nod, and Harry’s sort of sickeningly pleased to note that the fear is beginning to drip out of his face.

“Isn’t he on _drugs?_ ”

By the time that Liam convinces Harry that Zayn did not look like he was hooked on anything remotely detrimental to Harry’s health, nor did he have the bloodshot, bulging, 560 percent insane eyes of Harry’s imagination, they both realised that they’d spent the whole of their lunch break discussing Harry’s date and no time at all on revising maths.

“This is your fault.” Harry tells Liam, like he always does when he’s managed to not get something done (because it’s always Liam’s fault). Liam nods like he accepts this benediction, and begins picking up their things.

“I’m not going on that date, either.”

Liam nods again, slotting his textbook into his schoolbag and looking thoughtfully at the contents inside.

“Have you seen my pencil case?” He asks suddenly, and Harry narrows his eyes because with Liam, a sudden change of subject means he’s trying to create some kind of false sense of security before a puma-like strike. Harry began to stop falling for it about the age of twelve, when a mutual lack of friends left them as partners for every table in every lesson. It could’ve been worse, Harry used to reflect, because Liam could’ve been a total dick, but now, looking at Liam’s scrunched up expression (a sure tell), he decides that a total dick wouldn’t set him up on dates with someone who’s friends with a possible druggie.

“No.” He says shortly, shouldering his own bag, and turning his back.

“Never mind.” Liam says easily, hoisting his bag and standing up from his chair –just before pushing it back under the table, because Liam would never stand to see the day where he left ‘unnecessary’ work for the cleaners-, and moving to stand beside Harry.

“8PM at The Windmill. There’s a reservation. Dress nice, I guess?” Liam says, then striding off before Harry can clutch at him.

*

Harry doesn’t really do ‘dress nice’ he supposes. It’s one of those things people say when they’re not really sure what, exactly, you’re supposed to wear. Smart? Casual? An eclectic mix of somewhere in between?

He’s not a girl on her first date, so his clothes aren’t strewn haphazardly across his bed. No, he’s a fully mature _boy_ on his first date, with no people skills or dating experience (and a slight leaning towards the neat side of life) so his clothes are still hanging in his wardrobe. If there was no pre planned date tonight, he could’ve been making up the revision he so artfully avoided this lunchtime. Although, if there hadn’t been a date in the works, he and Liam wouldn’t have been talking about it at lunch, so the aforementioned revision wouldn’t have been abandoned in the first place.  
Paradoxes aside, Harry still doesn’t know what ‘dress nice’ is supposed to mean.

The Windmill is one of the more favourable restaurants in town, but it’s not exactly one where you turn up in a pressed and ironed tuxedo with a bunch of flowers. That’s not really Harry’s style, anyway. It’s not exactly a grab and dash takeaway, either, and Harry most definitely doesn’t fit in that situation. He wears checked shirts, for God’s sake.

When Harry leaves the house at half past seven, he’s wearing the same blue checked shirt (short sleeves, for added casual), but with black trousers (for added formal). He thinks he’s done pretty well for someone who doesn’t really know what to wear. Now all he has to hurdle is the date itself, then he can go back home and finish the revision before he’s declared a verified failure. Maybe his date won’t show. Maybe it’s all an elaborate ruse that Liam’s too naive to realise. Then Harry can leave even earlier than expected, and make up for lost time.

At approximately 19:34, Harry climbs in to his car and starts the ignition.

At approximately 19:52, Harry kills the engine and sits quietly in his car in the restaurant car park. Well, it’s not really an approximation, because he checked the time on his watch, but approximation sounds less finicky that exactly. Harry’s not fastidious, he’s _organized._ Organization is sexy.

He thinks to himself that he’d rather this really was a joke instead of an actual date, because Harry can cope with the jokes, and the insults, and the badly covered up hounding. He’s grown sort of used to it, since he started school. And that someone would actually want to date him, with his wide, thick frame glasses and slick, neatly middle-parted hair, is not something he’s learned to know. Harry likes what he knows; he also likes things he doesn’t know, like when he learnt ionic compounds (but not reflexive verbs), but he thinks this would be the sort of thing that he wouldn’t like.

For something he’s sure is going to be a hoax, he’s got an awful lot of butterflies twisting around in his stomach. Slowing his breaths, Harry takes a minute to count the rapid beats of his heart, a constant thump in his chest. If it’s quiet enough, and you listen, Harry learnt that you can hear the rushing of blood in your ears as it comes up to your brain.

It’s exactly 8:00PM when Harry walks in to the restaurant, because he doesn’t want to be either early or late.

“Reservation for Harry Styles.” He tells the woman at the desk, who raises her eyebrows an ever-so-delicate fraction. Harry’s okay with that, because he knows just how he oozes an aura of ‘No one wants to date me’. He thinks how minutely embarrassing it’s going to be when he has to walk back past her after there’s a no show.

In books and movies, when the unsuspecting hero of the piece (who’s secretly drop dead gorgeous under the frames and thick clothing) enters for the date, they’re taken to a table at the back. Zayn, or Liam, or whoever reserved the date, didn’t seem to want to flow with this tradition, because he’s lead to a table kind of to the side and sort of in the middle. On the right, is a middle aged man wooing a uninterested looking brunette (her hair is brushed very well to get it that shiny, but it’s not  the kind of shine you see when you get your hair pampered often; the jewels around her neck are fakes, and the varnish on her nails is chipped. Harry concludes prostitute). On the left is two elderly ladies, both with coiled silver hair and tailored suits (one of them has a wedding ring, but the other has a band of white around her ring finger where a ring of long standing has obviously recently been removed. There’s a glass of champagne in her hand, and Harry concludes two friends celebrating the end of a tired marriage).

“I think you have the wrong table.” He whispers to the woman, who purses her lips and looks at him in irritation.

“You’re Harry Styles, right?” She asks, and Harry nods mutely. “Well, the reservation is for this table. Enjoy your night.”

Harry thinks it would’ve been more polite of her to lower her voice, but she doesn’t seem like she’s in the mood for manners tonight. Harry also thinks it isn’t his place to judge, but he does anyway.

Pulling out one of the dark wood chairs, Harry clears his throat unnecessarily (because the guy’s already _staring_ at him) before sitting down lightly like the chair might buck up and throw him off.

He’s never, ever, following Liam’s advice ever again. The sod’s only two dating experiences were utter failures anyway/

“Uh, hi.” Harry says, and clears his throat again.

“Hi.” The guy replies, his eyes dragging back down to the tablecloth like the strands of clothes have intricate mysteries woven in to them.

“I’m uh, my name is Harry.” He tries again, and Harry is beginning to really hope that this is a joke. A cosmic, outer space joke from the universe, congratulating him on his unpopularity and low social status.

“I know.” He’s told, and Harry rolls his eyes because this is like talking to a wall, except a wall is less offending.

“Really?” He asks, tilting his head to the side, and the bloke opposite deigns to look up and meet Harry’s eyes.

“The woman said it when you came over.”

“Oh.” Harry says, because of course. It’s not like he’s actually going to know who Harry is, because Harry is quiet and retained and a self proclaimed introvert. He enjoys _maths._

“Yeah.” Is the reply, and Harry is beginning to think that conversation with the majority of this village runs on sighs when he gets another sentence. “M’name’s Louis.”

“Hello, Louis.” Harry says, and Louis looks at Harry like he’s trying to understand something. Harry supposes it’s better than a look that’s trying to imagine what it’d be like to right hook his face (for the record, it seems to be enjoyable).

Louis. Not the sort of name Harry would immediately associate with a guy who has a leather jacket draped over the back of his chair, tight black jeans inside heavy biker boots and skin inked with more tattoos than Harry could ever imagine facing a tattoo gun for (needles are highly frightening). Besides all that, his claret shirt has the name of a band in artistic calligraphy writing that’s verging on the side of decorative that’s almost illegible, but it looks a little something like ‘Noir Rogue’. Harry really hopes he’s misread it, because pretentious band names leave him feeling vaguely nauseous.

“Hello, Harry.” Louis says, and smiles for the first time that night. Nothing more than a small pull of muscle at one corner of his mouth, but it’s enough for some of the twinges in Harry’s stomach to dissipate.

“Here are your menus, and I’ll be your waiter for tonight.” They’re told suddenly by a voice from somewhere behind Harry, and then a menu is promptly shoved in front of Harry’s face. The person moves from behind Harry to stand by their table, handing a menu to Louis just as promptly as he did Harry, and stands there (beaming a lot too happily for Harry’s liking, and judging by the frown on Louis’s face, for him too). Said Waiter’s badge reads ‘Niall’, and that explains his accent. Not that a name that wasn’t Irish wouldn’t, necessarily, explain his accent.  
Harry sometimes thinks how lucky it is that no one can read his thoughts. But then, he also thinks how lucky it is that he’s awake enough in the morning to study.

“Uh, thanks.” Harry says, when it becomes clear that Louis isn’t going to say anything to rescue them all from the silence.

“ _You_ are _welcome._ ” Harry’s told, Niall’s head bobbing with the emphasis on the words, before their waiter vanishes as quickly as he appeared.

“ _That_ was _weird._ ” Harry murmurs, mimicking Niall’s accent and head movements, and he’s surprised enough by Louis’s unexpected snort of laughter that he fumbles his menu.

“That was one happy son of a bitch.” Louis says thoughtfully, looking at the menu. Harry watches Louis’s eyes flick from left to right, and opens his own menu.

“If he smiled any wider he’d probably pull something.” Harry replies, and Louis hums. Looking up, Harry notices a tattoo of a deer on Louis’s bicep, and he thinks privately it looks ridiculous. (He thinks it looks hot).

“Maybe the wind changed and he was stuck like that.”

Harry glances back up again. “What?” This is, of course, the most intelligent reply on offer.

“You know the saying. Pull a face, the wind’ll change; you’ll get stuck that way. Et cetera.”

“Oh, that.” Harry says. He resolves to remember that, and next time something comes up that he doesn’t entirely understand, he’s going to play along and not look like an idiot.

“So, you go to the comprehensive?” Louis asks, and Harry nods.

“Who doesn’t go to the comprehensive?” He questions in reply, and Louis hums again, which seems to be some primitive form of conversation that he’s picked up from somewhere. Harry can’t talk, because he expects people to gauge his mood from the vehemence of his exhale.

“Even I go to the comprehensive, on the days I turn up.” Louis says, and Harry files this away. He knew anyway, because he’s one of Zayn’s friends, and he thinks he kind of recognises him in a sort-of way, and that lot rarely turn up to school. He’s not going to mention their failing status, though, because that’s not a very good form of social etiquette. “Should probably be at Uni now, or something, but whatever.”

A very laid back attitude to education, Harry thinks.

“What subjects you doing?” He asks tentatively, because he’s not entirely sure that Louis isn’t just going to pick up and run off from him.

“Do you know what?” Louis asks, sighing and looking at Harry like he’s just revealed something highly interesting, “I have absolutely no idea.”

Harry laughs before he can stop himself, bringing a hand up to his face to try and stop the sound escaping, and he’s so busy attempting to stop his own laughter that he doesn’t immediately recognise Louis’s, rough and scratchy and higher than Harry’s own (much like his voice).

When they stop, Harry looks at the man opposite and thinks to himself that really, someone with a facial structure like that shouldn’t also be allowed to have bright eyes and _fantastic_ biceps.

“What’ll you have, lads?” Says an enthusiastic voice in Harry’s ear, and Harry jumps violently, banging his knee on the underside of the table.

“I- uh. Pizza for me, thanks.”  Harry most definitely does not miss the raised eyebrow look that Louis shoots his way, and he ponders on it. “Vegetable.” He shoots out, just before he takes the time to remember that he’s no longer vegetarian and hasn’t been for eleven years.

“I’ll have the steak.” Louis tells the waiter firmly, looking at Harry (is that a God damn challenge?) and smiling slightly. “D’you want a drink?”

Harry nods without saying anything, because he’s currently got some kind of mind block that doesn’t permit him to actually seem like he’s in any way in control of his own mind, and Louis looks back to the waiter.

“A bottle of red, please.”

Well, shit. Harry wonders if Louis knows he’s underage, and then realises that he probably does. Harry doesn’t exactly look like the type to have been kept behind a year, after all.

“You lads enjoying your night?” Niall asks when he’s penned down their orders, and Harry furrows his eyebrows and darts a surreptitious look at Louis from across the table.

“Yeah, sure.” Louis says, and Harry echoes him.

“So, you a couple or what?”

God, Harry didn’t know that waiters were paid to hover around customers’ tables. He must’ve been frequenting all the wrong restaurants.

“Are you supposed to be asking this?” Louis asks in exasperation, and Harry gives a small, inward cheer.

“No, no. I was just interested. Making small talk.”

“Yeah, looks like it’s empty tonight.” Harry says, glancing pointedly around the crowded room and Niall laughs.

“Mate, talking to you guys means that some other unlucky bugger has to do this table where there’s a date going to complete _shit._ I do not want to come in for any undeserved berating. But thank you both for your time.” Smiling broadly at them (again) and clutching his notepad to his chest, Niall walks back towards the kitchen, zigzagging between tables and chairs.

“He is still one strange bastard.” Louis says, looking back after him.

“Definitely.” Harry agrees, admiring in a most certainly detached way how Louis’s hair is all sorts of untidy and crossing every which way across his forehead.

“Harry?” Louis questions, when the silence threatens to become oppressive (in books, you know it’s L-O-V-E at first sight when silences are never awkward, they’re filled with all the romantic thoughts that are inscribed on each other’s faces with sharpie pen), and Harry blinks rapidly and looks up.

“Yeah?”

“Why, on Earth, would you come to a mediocre, heading towards vaguely high end restaurant to order pizza?”

So that explains the look Harry got when he ordered.

“I dunno. I didn’t really look at the menu, and pizza was all I could remember. You know, I’m not even vegetarian. I used to be, when I was a kid. Mum told me that sausages were made out of pigs and I freaked out, a lot, and refused to touch anything without being told that it wasn’t made of some animal.”

To his unending relief, Louis actually looks interested.

“What changed your mind?” Louis asks, and Harry thinks about this.

“I think it was when my mate invited me over for dinner and I was too polite to tell his mum that I didn’t eat bacon. Never looked back, after that.”

“Could change the world, bacon.” Comments Louis and Harry thinks he spots another flicker of a smile. It’s probably some kind of achievement that Louis didn’t walk out as soon as he saw his date was a glasses wearing, stereotype ‘smart kid’.

“No need for politics as long as there’s bacon.” Harry says, and Louis nods seriously, propping his head up under his chin by the tips of his fingers and looking at Harry speculatively.

“How would you convince the hardcore vegetarians that bacon could change it?”

Harry sighs, shaking his head and narrowing his eyes at Louis in thought. “I could always give them their own island, away from the rest of us.”

“Isn’t that segregation?” And Louis laughs again, husky and light and grating, and this is really not what Harry needs because he’ll probably be thinking over this night every other night of his long, lonely life.

“What’s your solution, then?” Harry asks, and Louis closes his eyes briefly, his eyelashes casting smudged shadows on his cheeks from the dulled lighting inside the restaurant. The couple to the right of them are still quiet (or maybe Harry isn’t paying as much attention to his surroundings as usual) but the one to the left are emitting the usual dining sounds of clinking cutlery against china and the low murmurs of conversation. Looking around, Louis is the only person here who looks out of place. Harry finds himself not really minding.

“I think... we should offer it to them first, of course. Gotta have a fair trial. And then, maybe, the ones who agree can join us in our bacon loving free world. The ones who don’t try it but seem peaceful enough can stay, but if there’s any funny business with people trying to shatter our idyllic bacon world, we send them to colonize on the moon.”

Harry mimes a salute to Louis, who nods again and begins on his speech of how he always knew he was destined for great things.

By the time their food has arrived, the conversation has turned to more serious things.

“So, Harry. What are you going to make of the big, bad world?” More than anything, Harry’s considerably proud that he can tell this isn’t an insult with having only spent part of an evening with this guy. He tugs at his collar a little, trying to allow his oesophagus more breathing room, and thinks carefully about how to word his answer.

“My mum wants me to go in to medicine.” He says, and Louis raises his eyebrows, fork halfway towards his mouth. Harry takes the opportunity to take another bite of pizza.

“I asked what you wanted, Harry, not what your mum wants. They’re very different, you know. Well, they usually are, anyway.”

Harry can concede defeat on that one.

“I’d like to go in to science, I think. I could be a scientist.”

“Yeah?” Louis asks.

“Yeah.”

They eat in silence for a little while after that, until Harry burns up enough courage to ask a question of his own (even if it’s only a rehash of Louis’s previous query).

“So what do you want to do when you’re done with school?”

Louis chews thoughtfully, spearing a lettuce leaf and spinning it around on his plate.

“I’m not really a school guy. Obviously.” He says, waving his free hand down at his body. Harry decides not to vocalise his agreement with this point. “So I’d like to do something to do with bikes. Motorbikes.” He adds on at the end, spotting Harry’s obviously not masked as well as he had thought confusion.

“You have a bike?”

“Yeah, she’s great. Harley Davidson. Black, beautiful, runs like a dream. You know the type.”

No, Harry doesn’t, because he drives a small, blue, falling apart Ford Fiesta, but that seems to be beside the point.

“Ever thought about racing it?”

Louis eats the neglected piece of salad, holding Harry’s gaze and swallowing slowly.

“Not sure I’m good enough for that. But I could work in a garage, definitely.”

Harry is beginning to think the glasses of wine have gone to his head by the end of the meal. He doesn’t think, really, that pizza and red wine were ever meant to partner up, but it’s a good, rich wine so he’s not really caring much right now.

And after all that, Louis never even drank any of it. Which means Harry drunk a whole bottle of wine.  
He’s probably going to hell.

“You okay?” Louis asks when they stand up, and Harry thinks he sees the room sway a bit. It’s probably him, because he’s probably drunk. You can’t just down a bottle of wine and expect nothing to come of it.

“Wine.” Harry says, smiling widely, and Louis shakes his head.

“Shouldn’t have let you have all that.” He says, and the smile drops of Harry’s face faster than he can say his nine times table (because the nines are his favourite).

“You’re not my parent, Lou-is.” He tells him, and there’s definitely a ghost of a smile on Louis’s face there somewhere, and that’s a victory.

“Parents don’t go on dates with their kids.” Louis points out, as they walk out of the building, zipping up his jacket. Harry didn’t think he was really going to be staying all that long, so he’s just got his shirt.

“No, that would be illegalcest.” He says, laughing, and walks right in to the back of Louis (or, alternatively, the back of Louis’s thick leather jacket).

“Harry, did you drive here?” Louis asks, and Harry nods as seriously as he can manage. He’s trying to control a sudden urge to tell Louis how pretty he looks with his hair all unorganized and that’s a compliment because Harry feels that organization is attractive.

“I can’t let you drive home. You’ll run into a tree. Or a ditch. Or a kind hearted, charity donating old lady.”

Harry giggles (he actually _giggles_ , like a little girl in a fairy book) and puts his hand on Louis’s shoulder to steady himself. It takes him two tries to actually locate Louis’s shoulder, because Louis seems to keep moving. The leather’s smooth under the palm of his hand, like someone takes care of it, wants it to shine. Harry has to resist a sudden, strong urge to pet the leather, especially, as in essence, he’d be petting a dead cow.

“C’mon, you’re coming with me. You can pick up your car tomorrow.” And Louis takes Harry’s hand off of his shoulder, but keeps hold of it, pulling him towards a different corner of the car park to where Harry parked. There’s an indistinct black shape in one of the parking bays, which upon closer inspection is, in fact, a motorbike with a wide seat and shining paint.

“You’ll probably need the helmet more than me. God, you’re going to probably fall off.” Louis says, sliding Harry’s glasses off of his face and shoving them into Harry’s hand, pushing the helmet down on Harry’s face and pushing the visor down. Harry’s so busy adjusting to the fact that he’s getting a ride on a machine of death from a tattooed punk with ocean eyes that he doesn’t see Louis take his jacket off, and his arm is in one of the sleeves before he has time to really protest.

“No, I can cope without. You’re only wearing short sleeves too.” Louis says irritably, in reply to Harry’s half-hearted protests, so Harry stops them altogether. The inside of the jacket is lined with fur, the thick, silky kind that keeps you so perfectly warm, and if Harry wasn’t about to accept a ride on two wheels of death he could probably fall asleep. Despite the alcohol, Harry remembers to push his glasses into one of the jacket’s pockets, and he makes sure they’re secure probably a few more times than he needs to. He didn’t know, previously, that conscientious was a type of drunk, but there you are.

Louis sits on the bike before Harry, and pulls Harry up behind him, making sure that Harry’s hands and arms are held tight around his waist, and kicks the motorbike in to life.

They pull out of the car park slowly, and even if he is intoxicated and likely to die of alcohol poisoning and proximity to an unreasonably gorgeous male, Harry could not for the world allow himself to loosen his grip.

“Where do you live?” Louis calls out to him suddenly, and Harry remembers that he should be breathing, or something. Right. He can do that.

Louis has to repeat his question before Harry registers it fully, and he gives his address as clearly as he could. Really, he didn’t realise that he was the only one drinking. He assumes that Louis realised that he had to drive home, and Harry didn’t, and it’s a disgrace to his intelligence that he forgot.

The streets are empty at this time of night, and the roads are dark. Harry thinks night is like seeing in black and white, like an old film, with the streetlights burning spots of colour on to the tarmac as they speed along, Harry’s fingers splayed across Louis’s middle, fabric and cloth covering skin and muscle and bone.

Even though Harry was at least eighty percent sure he wasn’t going to make the trip, Louis pulls up outside Harry’s house without incident, slowing the bike to a stop helping Harry off. Harry thinks that for someone of Louis’s standing, he’s an awful gentleman. Harry pulls the helmet off of his head, and holds it in one hand whilst the other tries to pat down hair that naturally wants to break free of it’s straightened, gelled bonds.

“Do you need me to walk you to your door, or am I good to stay here?”

It’s because Harry’s inebriated that he doesn’t know how to reply to that.

“Goodnight, Harry.” Louis says, taking the helmet off him and then the jacket (which he puts on himself, and even a drunk man would find that hot).

And Harry hopes that he’s not drunk enough to have the whole of tonight entirely wiped from his mind (which it shouldn’t, hopefully, because that’s what you get with near photographic memory) because Louis leans towards him ever so slightly and Harry tilts his head down because Louis is smaller than him and he never realised, and then he’s kissing him and he didn’t want his first kiss to be under the influence but, you win some, you lose some.  
It’s not really anything more of a press of skin until Louis presses harder, opening his mouth to take one of Harry’s lips between his teeth and bite down ever so gently, and when he lets go, Harry’s tongue darts inside Louis’s mouth, swiping across the roof and exploring. Actually, it’s most likely a beneficial factor that’s he’s drunk. Drunkenness means for loss of inhibitions. Harry with inhibitions would be too afraid to kiss Louis at all, let alone like this. For his own part, Louis’s tongue swipes across Harry’s lower lip before moving in to Harry’s mouth, and then Harry’s brain sort of short circuits and he doesn’t really know what’s happening anymore but he likes it very, very much.

“Goodnight, Harry.” Louis repeats, pulling away just as Harry’s beginning to weigh up the pros and cons of choosing air over kissing, and Harry nods.

“You know, that was my first kiss.” He says, nodding knowledgably, and maybe this no-inhibitions thing really isn’t so great after all.

“I’m honoured.” Louis says, offering Harry the first full smile that Harry’s seen from him all evening. “And they say practice makes perfect.”

By the time that Harry has geared up his brain enough to work out what that means, Louis has put the helmet on and driven off, so Harry ambles his way inside his house. He’d like to say he stayed up for the rest of the night, hugging himself in glee and occasionally whimpering at how happy he is, but he’d be lying (he was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow).

*

“You actually stayed for the _whole date?_ ” Liam asks, big eyebrows raised over bigger eyes, and mouth falling open. Harry thinks it’s lucky that Liam’s resemblance to a dog or a small deer doesn’t always match up with his brain, because he doesn’t think having one sided conversations would be all that great.

“Yes, Liam.” He mutters, eyes moving down over the page in front of him. One of the not-so-bonus points of staying out all night on dates with attractive tattooed men is that you don’t have time to do homework, so for the first time in a long while he’s resorted to doing it during his break.

“But wasn’t it- wasn’t it strange, to, uh, just be there. With one of them.” The way that Liam says ‘one of them’ is similar to the way he might say ‘instigators of all evil’. No wonder he and Harry’s mum get on so very well.

“Liam, you’re really stopping me from learning of the wonders of the making of an ester.” He tells him lightly, flicking the page and enjoying the view of Liam’s downtrodden face.

“’m sorry.” Liam murmurs, like Harry knew he would.

“’s alright.” Harry replies, equally quietly, just like he always does when he’s properly told Liam off. Otherwise, it would be too much like getting kicks out of, well, kicking a baby.

The rest of their break passes by silently (unless you count measured breathing and turning pages, which Harry thinks that you shouldn’t really because that’s background noise) until the bell rings.

“Hey, boys.” Says someone behind of Harry, and Harry isn’t sure if his back is particularly enticing or something but people have a habit of talking from behind him. Maybe his face is just that off-putting.

“Matthew.” Liam says in reply, and Harry’s back stiffens. _Prick,_ he thinks sullenly, and glances up at the clock in front of him. They have the usual five minutes to get to lessons before they’ll be counted absent, and a phone call to his mother on the subject of an unexplained absence is really not what he needs to top this day off.

“And how are we today?”

“We’re fine.” Liam says, and Harry admires his ability to maintain a tone of neutrality.

“You gone dumb, Styles?” Harry’s asked, and Harry turns around, smiling stiffly.

“Not yet.” He replies, and Matthew laughs. Harry wonders if he could feel anything less like the boy who hitches rides from tattooed boys on motorbikes than he does in this second, and comes up blank.

“Good, good.” Matthew says (insincerely, of course, because these conversations always run on the lines of insincere). “You keeping up with your work, of course?”

Matthew’s friends laugh, as is their due, because these guys travel in packs. They’re like feral dogs. Wild, feral, _diseased_ dogs.

“I don’t want to fail my exams and end up working in the local takeaway, do I?” Harry asks sweetly, and there’s a resulting hiss that travels like some sort of snake-like Mexican wave around the group.

“You got something to say, say it, alright?” Harry doesn’t know if he should be scared or proud that this is the first point in any of their conversations prior that Matthew has sounded anything other than mocking. Now, he just sounds slightly pissed and still full of himself. The chest-banging could commence at any second.

“I have lots of things to say, Matthew. I just don’t want to necessarily say them to _you._ ” It must be the bad influence of recent associations that he’s suddenly developed a mouth.

“Watch your mouth, Styles, or I might have to punch that glass right in to your eyes.” Which Harry would very much like to say doesn’t scare (terrify the living shit out of) him, but he’d be lying. He knows Matthew is fully capable of carrying that out, if the whim took him. Of course, the suspension could deter him for a few seconds, but thinking was never really Matthew’s strong point so Harry doesn’t know how long that’ll hold for.

“Uh, ‘S alright lads, we don’t want any trouble.” Liam says, not so subtly elbowing Harry in the side. Liam is not fond of falling head first into trouble. Not that Harry is either, obviously, but Liam is even less fond of it than Harry. In many more ways than Harry could possibly list (in his confrontation-addled brain, because in his normal working capacity Harry’s mind runs perfectly well), Liam is a born and bred pacifist, but Harry’s mouth sometimes gets the better of him.

“Yeah? But I think your friend already got you into trouble?”

Harry can just sense it in the wind that he’s getting shit from Liam about this later, if Liam can get them out of it. If not, he’ll probably just give Harry one of his most disappointed sighs and say he’ll forget about the whole thing (which has the resultant effect of forcing Harry to apologize until Liam accepts).

“Who’s in trouble?” Asks a third voice, and for a few heartbeats Harry thinks it must’ve come from one of Matthew’s group, a particularly slow member who’d probably missed the entire confrontation whilst thinking about dinner, or porn, or whatever else they use their consciousness on.  
It’s not one of them, though, and Harry should probably have registered this the first time. Not that he’s been over thinking last night’s events, because they kind of felt like they happened to a different Harry Styles (a drunk Harry Styles, maybe), who goes out on dates with punks and rides motorbikes. This Harry wears a knitted cardigan over his shirt and does all his homework on time, and the two are most definitely not the same. For a start, the second Harry wouldn’t have time to do all the things that First Harry does.

“What?” Matthew asks, bewildered, and Harry can hear Liam’s exhale next to him.

“I asked who was in trouble, dipshit.” Louis says, pushing through the group –despite it being more logical to walk around it- and standing next to Matthew. And really, Harry’s standing before what could be a possible fist fight, and all he’s noticing is that Louis’s wearing a black tank top and it shows off his sleeve tattoos very well indeed. In fact, it shows quite a lot of skin, most of it inked and golden where it isn’t, and Harry wants to run his fingers over it, be constantly surprised that the tattooed skin isn’t raised or bumpy, and none of his thoughts really have much to do with the present situation at hand.

He feels like he’s having one of those moments where you think vehemently “Clap your hands if you hear this” and wait to see if anyone has been listening in on your thinking.

“What’s it to you?” Questions Matthew, and Harry’s sort of glad to see the way that his eyes widen when he takes in the trail of Louis’s tattoos, from his wrists to his chest and his neck.

“Just interested.” Louis replies coolly, looping his thumbs inside the pockets of his jeans, and maybe Harry could fully appreciate the bizarreness of this situation (like Matthew and Liam obviously are) if he wasn’t so completely blown away by how hot Louis is.

“Well it isn’t none of your business, so you can leave.” Matthew says to Louis, but it’s not as forceful as he’d probably like. In the end, it sounds more like a suggestion as opposed to a command, and Louis just smiles softly as though Matthew’s some sort of small kid that should be humoured but not really taken seriously.

“I’m fine here, really. How are you, Harry?” Louis asks swiftly, turning to him, and Harry blinks rapidly behind his glasses.

“Uh. Good. Yeah. I’m good.”

Louis nods, and his tongue swipes over his lower lip, and Harry’s eyes look down before he can stop them (not that he would’ve really put that much effort in to it). Which of course, Louis sees, and the corners of his lips twitch before his indifference reasserts it’s authority.

“And you’re Liam, right?” He asks, to Liam (obviously), who nods spasmodically but says nothing.

“So what _was_ the trouble?” Louis asks, again, and Matthew’s cheeks flush dully. It’s most likely something to do with how Louis is obviously a few years older than himself, and is more than a smidge intimidating.

“It was nothing.” Matthew mutters, glancing up briefly to his group, which is some sort of telepathic signal because they all melt away after that.

“I guess they weren’t happy to see me.” Louis says in interest, looking after them with raised eyebrows, and Liam sighs again –shakily- for about the fiftieth time that day.

“Thank you. For, y’know. Stopping us getting whacked.”

“You’re welcome.” Louis says, and Harry is fervently glad that he doesn’t point out the literality of that sentence because he didn’t _physically_ stop them getting beaten up, but Liam would be sure to dive in with how he actually did, and even the thought of that argument makes Harry’s head begin to ache.

“I never caught your name.” Liam says, politely. Harry thinks to himself that if it came to it, Liam would prize manners above all other virtues. _‘Please and thank you’s are free’_ he’s told Harry on previous occasions, and if Harry hadn’t been there he wouldn’t have been able to stress now just how much of an old lady Liam actually sounded like.

“Louis Tomlinson.” Louis tells Liam, and Harry now has a last name to (add to his creepy shrine devoted to Louis) go on.

“The bell rang for class ages ago.” Liam then says, mournfully, and Harry looks at his bag, inside which is his long stressed over homework, and thinks very carefully.

“I’ll have to skip, then.” He decided, smiling widely, and Louis looks at him in a way that’s two parts surprised, and one part proud.

“See you later then. I didn’t do all this work to miss giving it in.” Liam says, looking at Harry as though he’s completely lost any semblance of sanity (which is more than likely), shouldering his bag more securely and dashing out of the lunch hall.

“Looks like it’s just you and me.” Louis says, and is that a leer? Concentrating on trying to steady his breathing, Harry tells himself sternly to say something witty and flirty and all kinds of cool that will make Louis (love him) not think he’s some pathetic kid who needs rescuing all the time.

“Are you wearing eyeliner?” He asks, and Louis isn’t the only one who sighs.

*

Eventually, Louis decides that the last few lessons of school aren’t really that important anyway, and takes Harry’s hand before pulling him out onto the school car park.

“Not again.” Harry says, although he secretly is thrilled.

“You’re secretly thrilled.” Louis says serenely, and Harry drops his head.  “Don’t.” Louis tells him, sharply, to which Harry looks up questioningly. “Don’t look down. Makes you look like a girl.”

Harry thinks that’s probably not the whole truth, but he’s not going to be the one throwing insults at a guy who gets needles to pierce his skin for fun.

So it’s for the second time in as many days that Harry finds himself travelling down his village by motorbike, arms held fast around the torso of a man he never knew more than those two days ago, but it kind of feels like he’s known him forever.

“Is this your house?” Harry asks when they slow to a stop, and Louis nods.

“D’you think I’d just break in to whichever house I fancied?” He asks, and Harry begins murmuring apologies before he realises that Louis was joking.

“Doesn’t look like somewhere I think you would live.” He says instead, looking at the house with it’s neat, curtained windows and cut grass lawns.

“Wouldn’t think so, would you? S’what you get for living with your family, I suppose.”

Louis lives with his family then. That’s interesting. Harry’s not sure in what universe is that fact supposed to be interesting, but Louis gives so little away that Harry likes to store everything he learns, like an enormous vat of pointless Louis knowledge. Which is pretty hardcore for someone who’s only known the guy a couple of days.

“So, uh, why am I at your-” Harry gets his sentence cut off midway (which, as he would point out _if_ he hadn’t been otherwise engaged, is actually unspeakably rude) because as soon as Louis shut the front door, he’d pushed Harry up against the wall and was staring at him in a way that Harry was most certainly not used to being stared at in. Louis’s eyes had darkened so they looked almost predatory, and combined with the tattoos and the clothing Harry wasn’t entirely sure whether he should be turned on or afraid. He thinks both could work.

“I was so fucking angry, Harry. Thought they were gonna hit you, or something. So angry. You make me- so angry.” Before Harry’s really had time to process anything that’s going on other than the fact that Louis appears to be a tad upset, Louis’s leaning in and pressing their mouths together fiercely, teeth clinking and pushing against each other. There’s no asking for permission this time; Louis brings his hands up to either side of Harry’s face, and pushes Harry’s jaw down with his thumbs so he can move his tongue inside, licking stripes along the fleshy parts of the inside of Harry’s cheeks and then over Harry’s tongue too.

Harry himself is writhing, hands pattering against the wall and finding no purchase so moving to knot in Louis’s hair before moving their way down to his waist. Louis sucks in a breath, and forces Harry even further backwards (which he hadn’t thought was possible, but obviously it was), and tilting his head back.  Harry’s beginning to think he should buy contacts or something, because glasses really get in the way, when Louis breaks contact. Not with Harry’s skin, though, because his mouth trails down to the side of Harry’s neck, and Harry shouldn’t be finding it hot that Louis’s mouth is right over where Harry’s pulse is jumping, but he does.

“So angry.” Louis whispers into Harry’s skin, and Harry whines some sort of reply because Louis’s sucking on the skin, teeth biting in, and then there’s a cool relief as Louis licks over it, sympathetically, only to find another spot right below it and begin the process again.

Perhaps Harry should’ve paused when this happened, but he doesn’t. Or maybe he should’ve when Louis’s fingers scrabbled at the buttons of his shirt, undoing the tops ones to expose his collarbones and letting Louis’s mouth run wild over pale skin (but he still doesn’t.  
The place where Harry does actually think he should be worrying about this is when one of Louis’s hands creeps around to rub the heel into the fabric of Harry’s crotch, but he only thinks about it for a few, small seconds before moving his own hands to Louis’s back, rucking up the bottom of his top so Harry can splay his fingers against the skin of his back.

“I like the eyeliner, by the way.” Harry says, breaths hitching, and Louis looks up from where his mouth is pressed against the dip between Harry’s collar bones. “If you were, uh, wondering.”

“Oh my _god,_ Harry.” Louis says, but it’s less exasperated as it is turned on, and Louis’s looked at him unblinkingly for longer than 5 seconds and if Harry remembers correctly, that means either he wants to fuck him into the mattress, or kill him. Louis leans up to pull Harry’s lower lip between his own, moving his hands so they push either side of Harry’s shoulders into the wall, and the fact that this is Louis’s home with it’s cream entrance hall wallpaper and child photographs should probably be a turn off but it really, really, isn’t.

“Louis. Louis, wait.” Harry tries to get out, but he’s not really holding much faith in his vocal chords. Once again, Louis pauses to look up to Harry, fingers of his left hand stilling where they were fumbling at the zipper of Harry’s trousers.

“What?” He asks, and Louis’s voice is all sorts of rough and worn.

“This is, uh. I mean, it’s just, I’m-” This time, Harry’s kind of very glad when Louis cuts him off, and he can feel a kiss of heat over his cheeks were his embarrassment shows.

“I kinda guessed that.” Louis whispers into his ear, breath tickling, and Harry shivers. He doesn’t raise a protest when Louis’s fingers resume their activities, even though he can tell Louis’s going slower this time, to let Harry know he’s got time to stop this. Harry’s beginning to think that the original objection was more of the kind of thing he felt he had to do, rather than something he wanted.

Louis slides Harry’s trousers down so they pool down around his ankles, but shakes his head when Harry moves to kick them off.

“You’re not going to need them off.” He tells him, and Harry swallows (eagerly) nervously. He’s left standing in just cotton boxers, and he’s got a pretty good stiffy, and this is all a long way from being a few seconds away from being thumped by a group of dickheads.

“Thought we’d keep it slow.” Louis murmurs, mouth by the shell of Harry’s ear again, and Harry shivers just like before. Louis laughs lowly, before moving down to kneel before Harry, mouth inches from Harry’s boxers, and this is definitely not a ‘slow’ that Harry is used to. He doesn’t even know what _fast_ could be.

Eyes flicking up to Harry one last time, Louis moves his mouth forward until he’s touching the stretched fabric of the boxers, and this is sending all sorts of warning signals off inside Harry’s head but he decides that it’s more important to focus at the matter to hand then actually think this through.

“Louis, shit. Oh, god.” Louis’s mouth is doing all sorts of unholy things, mouthing repeatedly at the (clothed) erection, mouth opening and closing just the teasing side of slow. Harry’s hands move from the wall, where they hadn’t been doing anything particularly useful anyway, to tangle his fingers inside Louis’s hair. His stream of words dissolves into just noises and moans as Louis’s mouth moves across the black material, tongue occasionally poking out to wet the fabric.

Harry didn’t know coming in your pants was supposed to be hot, but Louis obviously thinks it is. He clears his throat, and Louis presses a kiss to the inside of Harry’s thigh before hoisting up Harry’s trousers –which he deigns to allow Harry to do up himself.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Harry.” Louis says, smiling widely, and it’s bright enough that it could probably blind him. Although, Harry thinks, if your eyes have to go, blinded by a smile is probably a more romantic way. He’s temporarily blinded enough, anyway, that he allows himself to be pushed out the door with no prospects of how to get home (or worse, clean himself up).

*

Things continue on in that fashion for about a month. Harry turns up to school, Louis always appears to drag Harry off to some unused room he’d had the keenness to spot earlier and the rest, as is the saying, is history. Not that Harry really wants the time he fucked Louis’s face to go down in history.

This, however, had the adverse consequence of meaning Harry did, effectively, lose his lunch and break times, which left Liam alone. Liam said he didn’t mind, but Harry liked to say he was a lovely, caring friend who worried ceaselessly about this. Nevertheless, Liam never showed up to lessons looking like he’d just come out worse for wear in a fight, so one day Harry, under the guise of care (when actually just giving in to his primal desires of being a nosy prick), waits until half way through lunch to sneak up on Liam and see what kind of tactics are being deployed without his knowledge. It’s probably very fortunate that he’s proved to be so adept at blowing someone that he doesn’t have to piss off Louis at the same time.

“You got your ears pierced.” Harry says, trying for a neutral tone, as they wait outside the hall.

“Yeah.” Louis says, looking up to meet Harry’s eyes. Harry would like to think that Louis smiles more when he’s around him, but he can’t really say if that’s true because Louis smiles so very rarely.

“And you got a new tattoo.” He persists, tapping his finger on the diving swallow on the inside of Louis’s right forearm. “I thought you said you were going to wait until I could get one.”

“We-ell.” Louis says, sighing out the word. “I could take you to a guy who would get you one as you are,” before tapering out that approach at Harry’s stare, “but obviously, we’re waiting until you’re legal. But I got this one for you, because they’re your favourite bird, and, uh,-”

It’s obviously testament to the amount of time that Harry is spending with a motorbike riding punk that he has the balls to interrupt the said motorbike riding punk.

“Aren’t swallows to do with sailors?”

“Yes,” Louis says, as though that’s the single most obvious thing in the world, “but they also mean safety. And returning. ‘Cause you know, now I’m getting in to racing and stuff, it’s dangerous. So it means I’ll return to you. Like obviously, it’s just a bird, but that’s what it’s supposed to me-”

There’s a lot of interrupting going on here today, but Harry doesn’t think Louis will mind that this way is via kiss.

When they break apart, because apparently people need respiration to survive, Louis’s wearing the small smile that Harry knows he only has when he’s in a rare, ‘soft’ mood, and it usually means cuddling and slow kissing. So bummer for them being at school.

“Liam. We’re supposed to be spying on Liam.” He says, trying to inject some firmness into his voice, and walks on into the hall.

“Well fuck me.” He says, staring over at where he usually sits, and Louis snickers, coming up behind him.

“I’d love to, Harry, but not in front of- what the fuck?”

Harry can safely say that the reason that Liam never appears to get picked on anymore is because he spends his lunchtime wearing Zayn Malik’s biker jacket whilst making out with it’s owner. Shamelessly. In a crowded lunch hall.

“I think there’s a dramatic irony to this, somewhere.” Harry murmurs, and Louis laughs. Harry loves that sound; if he was in to all that flowery English romanticisms, he’s say it’s like liquidised sunlight.

“You alright, Liam?” He asks, when they’ve crossed the room to Liam’s table, and the two of them jump so violently that Zayn nearly falls off his chair.

“I’m okay.” Liam says, voice squeaking on the end.

“Liam.” Harry says, and Liam’s cheeks flood red. “Did you send me on a date so you could actually ask out the guy who was helping you set it up?”

“Uh.” Liam says, and Zayn laughs.

“Mate, I thought you’d have figured it out by now.” For a moment, Harry thinks Zayn’s talking to him, and he freezes because Zayn’s one of the art kids who smokes out behind the school and he has no idea how to phrase any kind of response, but he’s saved by Louis flicking up his middle finger at Zayn and smiling.

“Don’t be a prick.” He says, pulling out a couple of chairs from the nearby table (the group of girls already sitting there look too mildly afraid to raise an objection) and gesturing to Harry to sit down.

“Like a big, happy family.” Liam says, and Harry’ll be damned if Liam isn’t actually _tearing up._

*

For Harry’s eighteenth birthday, Louis takes him out to a tattoo artist who smiles happily before sticking a needle into Harry’s collarbones. Which, apparently, was a pretty weird place for your first tattoo, but there you are. Harry guesses that’s what happens when you spend enough time with a guy who has a weird obsession with said collarbones.

“Swallows.” Louis says the next day, when Harry’s taken the bandages off from over his skin.

“Apparently they mean something about commitment and love, someone said.” Harry tells him, and Louis presses a kiss in to each one, softly, before doing the same to Harry’s mouth.

The only thing that Harry could say was particularly _bad_ about that birthday, was that his mum completely flipped when she found out that he’d got tattoos. In the kind of way that involved banning Louis henceforth from that house, a lot of screaming and a tiny bit of crying. Harry kind of expected this, though.

Also, Louis told him some time after the “Zayn and Liam have actually been secretly dating for a while” that Harry without the hair gel was pretty damn hot, and Harry was prepared to listen to him because, after all, Louis sees him in the mornings (but leaves before his mum gets back from her night shift). And since he was flowing with the winds of change, Harry also walked in to school sans glasses. He did wear contact lenses, though, because he didn’t actually want to walk in blind. So it wasn’t a complete, movie magic, glasses whipped off to reveal stunning beauty, sort of transformation.

Louis seemed to think the new look was okay, though, judging by the way he steered Harry away from his first lesson to kiss him senseless in the school bathroom.

“I like the new trousers.” Louis said, grinding into Harry (who’s back was sort of uncomfortably pressing into a sink, but he wasn’t about to break the moment), who self consciously smoothed down the sides of his white t-shirt.

“I’ve been wearing them for weeks. And the new shirts. You’re such a bloke.”

“Noticed your ringlets, didn’t I?” Laughs Louis, reaching his hand up to pull gently at Harry’s hair. Harry frowns, because he didn’t come in to school dressed like this for Louis to take the piss, and Louis laughs again. “You know I think you look great. In fact, really wanna fuck you right now.”

They didn’t get much more talking done.

*

“It won’t be the same, when I go Uni.” Harry says, head resting on Louis’s stomach. He feels Louis’s sigh, because his head drops suddenly, before Louis’s breathing resumes it’s normal pattern. They’re laying full stretch on Louis’s bed, mostly because Louis is still banned from Harry’s house on pain of him mum chasing him out with a fork (which did, in fact, happen) screaming that he was a bad influence.

“That’s kinda obvious, really.” Louis points out, dropping one of his hands across Harry’s face. Harry snorts and tries to prise it off, but despite the small size of Louis’s hand, it seems to have no effect on the fact that he can hold on like a vice.  
This means Harry has to resort to more underhand methods, such as licking Louis’s palm, and smiles in self satisfaction when Louis groans and wipes his hand on the duvet.

“You’re disgusting.” He’s told, and Harry continues to smile because the no matter the number of times that Louis insults him, it’s probably never going to actually stop him from doing whatever he’s being told to stop. “But when I go Uni, it’s all gonna change.” Harry persists, moving Louis’s other hand to pet at his hair. Harry supposes that one of the bonuses of losing the gel (aside from the fact that it made Zayn wolf-whistle, which then had the repercussions of Liam raising his eyebrows and Louis threatening to cut off Zayn’s ‘tiny’ cock) is that he gets Louis to run his hands through it a lot, and that always makes him feel sort of warm and fluffy inside.

“Yeah. You’ll be there, in Oxford –well done, smart-ass- and I’ll be here, living at home, trying to race.”

“At least you graduated this year.” Harry offers, and he feels Louis sigh again.

“At least I graduated.” Louis reiterates, dropping his other hand to link fingers with Harry’s. “Maybe I could come up and see you sometime?”

And then Harry has one of those scientific, smile-splitting, ‘Eureka’ moments, and if he wasn’t in his happy place he’d be sitting up and flinging himself off the bed at his genius at spotting the obvious.

“Why don’t you move to Oxford with me?” He asks, and steamrollers on before Louis can throw any sort of wrench in his plans. “Like, we could get a place together. And I’d go to classes, and you’d. You would, uh, find some races. There’d be races over there. We can make it work.” Harry presses, tilting his head to the side to look at Louis’s face.

He thanks God, Jesus, a few other deities than he can dredge up from the dusty corners of his mind, all the stars and Louis himself, since he’s pretty much all of those to Harry anyway, that Louis is smiling. Not the small smile that means that he’s got to let Harry down gently, but the wide kind of smile that says that Harry’s managed to surprise him again, and Harry loves that smile more than he could ever put into words.

“You’re going to be my University boy?” Louis asks, and Harry smiles against the stretch of material over Louis’s torso.

“I’ll be your anything boy, if you come with me.” He says, and Louis laughs, rough and husky and all these different types of wonderful.

“Of course I’ll come with you.” He says, pulling Harry up towards him by their joined hands so they’re lying face to face. “Couldn’t have you going out there by yourself. You’d probably fall over if I wasn’t there.”

Gently, Louis disentangles his fingers from Harry’s, drawing them up Harry’s arm, over his shoulder and across to his collarbones that just peek out under his grey shirt, to trace over the outlines of one bird, and then the other.

“Don’t you trust me at all?” Harry asks, leaning his head forwards until their foreheads are resting against each other. And really, being in close proximity shouldn’t still be making his heart patter desperately against his ribs, but it does nonetheless.

“Not a bit.” Louis replies, closing the distance to press a small, chaste kiss to Harry’s lips, and Harry smiles into it because that’s just one of Louis’s ways of saying that he loves him.

**Author's Note:**

> Just in case you've seen other versions on this (namely, one on Wattpad), it's not mine. This is the only place I've posted this work :)
> 
>  **Edit, 2015:** Hey, all! So, I wrote this quite a while ago. I'm still hugely glad people are reading, and actually liking, this little work of mine. But looking back, I don't think I handled the end of the story all too well. You're all wonderful the way you are; if you change anything about yourself, change it for YOU, and no one else. So in a different ending to this story, Harry would've stayed with the glasses and dodgy jumpers- you're all beautiful, whether you think it or not :) Thanks for reading!


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